


Paris When it Sizzles

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [20]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst, F/M, pushing buttons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10099955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Stella and Hank get off to a bad start on a weekend trip to Paris.





	

Their weekend getaway had not started on a good foot.  Really, they had been fighting all week.  A series of little spats that finally gave way to a real argument the night before they left for Paris.  Needless to say, the train ride was uncomfortably silent.

 

In almost two years of living together, they’d had moments of getting on each others’ nerves.  Stella, who had always lived alone, found it quite difficult, at first, to find someone in the same space every time she turned around.  It was unfathomable to look at two toothbrushes in the holder at the sink or find strange things in the cupboards that she would never eat.  Little things like finding his underwear on the floor in the morning or spots of shaving cream in the sink or his scraps of paper with fragmented sentences lying about the house had aggravated her more than she’d originally let on.

 

Hank, on the other hand, found it harder to integrate himself into London than he did integrating himself with Stella.  The city bothered him more than she did, but sometimes it manifested itself into being annoyed with her.  If it was too cold during the day, he might pout about how she refused to put the thermostat past 18 celsius, making sure to be very condescending about about his use of celsius as though learning the conversion from fahrenheit earned him superiority.

 

They had been able to work their way past these small things.  Stella grew accustomed to his toiletries crowding hers in the medicine cabinet and Hank found a quiet, cozy pub to spend rainy days writing in, making friends with a few locals that he went out with on occasion.  

 

The one hurdle they’d never truly gotten over was their different views on acceptable displays of affection in public.  Stella was against them entirely, Hank was entirely for them.  They’d never found it possible to even meet in the middle.  Hank had to keep a lot of restraint most of the time and Stella had to try not to tense up so much when he put his arm around her when they went for a walk.

 

The spat that had caused the ripple effect through the rest of the week happened at Sunday brunch when Hank tried to take Stella’s hand while they were waiting for their table and she pulled it away from him.  He’d looked at her with an expression she’d never seen before, but that she’d read as ‘hold my hand, bitch,’ and folded her arms across her chest instead.  Brunch was very quiet.

 

The following morning, after stepping on the pile of Hank’s clothes as she got herself ready for work, Stella threw each and every article of clothing at him as he slept, starting with his socks and ending with his jeans.  He was mostly awake when the pants came flying and hit him in the face.  “What the fuck?” he’d said.  “I’m tired of your shit on the floor,” she answered before she shut herself inside the bathroom.

 

Wednesday was a chilly day and when Stella had come home, the thermostat had been turned up so high she’d had to open the upstairs windows.  Hank wasn’t even home when she’d gotten there and didn’t get back until after she’d gone to bed.

 

Friday, as they packed for the weekend, Stella gathered a mess of notepaper and Post-Its from every place she could find them and told Hank if he didn’t find a way to organize his useless scribbles, she would burn them.  Calling his work useless is what made him snap.

 

“Well, we can’t all be martyrs for a cause,” Hank said.

 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Stella spat.

 

“You want to spend all your time making sure people get to live their lives, but you refuse to live one of your own.  What you are is ab-fucking-normal.  No one can live up to these expectations and these rules you have.”

 

“It’s also pretty ab-fucking-normal to spend eight years fucking your way through one-night stands just to get revenge on your ex for cheating on you.”

 

“Do not bring Karen into this, and I don’t really think you want to get into a discussion on the psychological uses of a one-night stand to avoid emotional attachment.”

 

The four walls of Stella’s room felt very small.  She pursed her lips and ran her tongue over her teeth for a few moments before she next spoke.

 

“It’s two a.m.,” she said.  “We leave for Paris in eight hours.”

 

“Great, can’t wait,” he replied, slamming the door behind him as he left to sleep in the guest room for the night.

 

The next morning, they’d stayed out of each other’s way, barely seeing each other in passing.  Hank had used the guest bathroom to shower and shave, using the toiletries from the bag he’d packed the night before.  Stella had left the coffee warming for him, but drank hers upstairs in her room instead of at the counter as usual.  The only words they’d spoken to each other was as they’d encountered each other in the hall.

 

“Your passport is on the dressing table,” Stella had said.

 

“Thanks,” he answered.

 

They had both been wondering if they should just cancel the weekend when the car that had been ordered to take the to the train station arrived.  Hank grabbed both suitcases that were waiting by the door and took them down to the car while she locked up the house.  She put on her sunglasses and stared out her window while Hank sank back in his seat and looked out his own.  Three hours of minimal conversation later (“The track is to the left,” “want anything to drink?”) they pulled in to Paris Gare du Nord and waited in the taxi line to be taken to their hotel off Avenue des Champs-Élysées.  Stella was able to hold a conversation with the chauffeur in French, giving her directions to take the scenic route.  It didn’t matter the time it took or the cost.  It would be easier to stay traveling.

 

“Telling her what an asshole I am?” Hank asked.  He actually didn’t care what she was saying, but listening to her speak French was a turn on.  She’d given him a taste of it before when they’d been to restaurants, but the casual, conversational way she spoke to the woman in the front seat was something else.

 

“Mon amant est le stéréotype même de l'américain jaloux,” she said.  “Il pense qu'on est en train de parler de lui.”

 

The driver laughed and looked in the rear-view mirror at them.  “ On peut peut-être trouver de quoi le rendre jaloux, non? ” she asked, winking at Stella.

 

Stella glanced at Hank and then met the driver’s eye in the mirror.  “Je vais peut-être te laisser faire,” she answered, making her tone quite clear to Hank, even if he had no idea what she was saying.  She glanced at him again, but he’d turned his head away and was plucking at his bottom lip as he stared out the window.  It was crystal clear to him.  She could have anyone she wanted.  The cab driver, a hotel clerk, a stranger plucked off the street, or a writer in town for the weekend.

 

“Ah,” the driver said.  “Il a l'air d'un pauvre petit garçon. Tu es sûre qu'il ne parle pas français?”

 

“Il n'a pas besoin de parler français pour comprendre,” Stella answered.

 

When they got to the hotel, the chauffeur got out of the car to retrieve their bags from the boot.  She gave Stella a wicked smile and another wink as she handed over her bag.  Hank grabbed his own and left them at the curb to enter the hotel by himself.  Stella followed eventually, but it was several minutes later.  She met up with him at the check-in desk just as the clerk was handing over two keycards.

 

They were taken to the fourth floor in a caged elevator by a bellhop.  It moved slowly, but got them there.  The room was modern, while still retaining old world charm.  A Juliet balcony opened to a view of the narrow street and apartments across the way, so close you could almost reach out and touch them.  Hank stood at the window and searched for the Arch de Triomphe, which was somewhere nearby, but he wasn’t sure where.  Stella unpacked, because it never mattered to her if she was gone for a night or a week, she hated living out of a suitcase.

 

“What do you want to do?” Hank asked.

 

“Dinner is at eight,” Stella answered.

 

Hank looked at his watch.  Six hours away.  “I guess I’ll go for a walk.”

 

“Will you be coming back?”

 

“Probably.”  He slipped one of the key cards into his pocket and left the room.

 

He walked.  Something he used to do often in New York, aimless and unhurried.  He hadn’t been to Paris since before Becca was born and had very little recollection of where he went and what he did when he was there.  He followed signs to the Seine and walked along the bank of the river until he happened upon the bouquinistes he’d once read about.

 

Hank spent hours at the book stalls, browsing rare and vintage works in all sorts of languages.  He found a first edition of Charles Bukowski’s Love is a Dog From Hell, in French, and bought it, considering it apt for the weekend.

 

The sun was setting when he caught a cab back to the hotel.  He was probably cutting it close by coming back so late and he braced himself for the lecture on timeliness, but it didn't come.  Stella was already dressed for dinner when he got back to their room, at one of the mirrors at the double vanity, putting on earrings.

 

Just to spite her for the silent treatment, he threw his clothes on the floor before he stepped into the glass shower and turned his back when she picked them up.

 

He was showered and dressed in under fifteen minutes, not a personal record by any stretch, but it was enough time to get them to Maxim’s before their reservation.  Dinner was so uncomfortable it was a wonder they got through it at all.  At the moment, nothing could be more miserable than each other's company.  If not for the jazz band that played in the corner, it would've been a silent meal.  At the very least, Hank was grateful that Stella refrained from flirting with the waiter.

 

When they got back to the hotel, Hank broke away from her at the door.  “I'm going to the bar,” he murmured.  “Don’t wait up.”

 

The bar was small and a touch too swanky for his taste.  The furniture looked generally uncomfortable, but he took a seat at the bar and ordered a scotch on the rocks.  He lost himself in brooding into his drink and didn't hear the woman approach.

 

“Est-ce que cette place est occupée?” she asked.

 

“I don't speak French,” he answered without looking up.  “Je ne parle pas français.”

 

“Oh good,” the woman said, sliding onto the barstool next to him.  “Neither do I, really.”

 

She put her hand on Hank's knee as she leaned over the bar and called the bartender over.  He looked at her hand and for a split second he thought it might be Stella, playing a trick on him, but it was a brunette in a tight red dress.

 

“Are you alone?” she asked.

 

“No,” he answered.

 

“You look alone.”

 

“Looks can be deceiving.”  

 

“Martini, please,” the woman told the bartender.  “No olives.”

 

Hank took a glance at the bartender and then looked down at his half-empty glass.  The woman still had her hand on his knee and he didn't know how to remove it politely.  That was always his problem, he never knew how to say no, but he also didn't want her hand on his knee.

 

Hank shifted in his seat and the woman's hand slipped away, much to his relief.  The bartender brought her martini and she took a sip.

 

“What brings you to Paris?” the woman asked.

 

“Weekend getaway with my girlfriend.”

 

“And where is this alleged girlfriend?”

 

For all Hank knew, she was out fucking the cab driver by now.  “Upstairs, maybe,” he answered.  “I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know?”

 

“We’ve had a bit of a lover’s quarrel.”

 

“Well, that’s too bad.”

 

“Yeah, why is that too bad?”

 

The woman put her drink down on the bar and ran her finger of the rim.  “No one should be alone in Paris.”

 

“I told you, I’m not alone.”

 

She shrugged with one shoulder.  “Well, I guess you are with me right now.”

 

Hank took a minute to look at her, to really look at her.  She was attractive and like so many other women that had gotten him into trouble in the past.  Long legs, great tits, painted mouth, green eyes.  It would be so easy to go to her room with her, or anywhere, really.  She didn’t know him, so she couldn’t hate him.  For ten minutes, or maybe an hour, he wouldn’t feel so alone if he was with her.  Except, tomorrow would come and Stella would probably never forgive him in the same way he never forgave Karen.

 

The next five seconds could determine the rest of his life.  If he stayed, he would go to bed with the stranger in the red dress.  If he left, he would finally be gaining the willpower he’d never had.  Quickly, he downed the rest of his drink and slipped off the barstool.  He grabbed a bill from his wallet that was sure to cover his drink, and only his drink, and he walked away.  He used the spiral staircase that wrapped around the elevator shaft to climb to the fourth floor and he let himself into the room while holding his breath.

 

The balcony doors were open, letting in a light breeze.  One of the lamps was also on and the pocket door that separated the bathroom from the rest of the room was only partially shut.  Her dinner dress was crumpled on the bed along with her lingerie; the pale pink bra and panty set with the black lace that he always liked.  He ran his fingers over the cup of her bra for a moment before he went to peek into the open door of the bathroom.

 

Stella was in the bathtub, mostly in the dark, save for a candle burning on the marble counter and the lamplight that spilled in through the doorway.  As Hank moved sideways through the narrow space, he blocked the light and made the candle flicker.  If she didn’t want him in there, she would’ve locked the door.

 

The bath was much larger than the one at home, which was barely big enough for Stella to stretch her legs, so she didn’t take very many baths.  This bathtub was separate from the shower, its own entity protruding like a oblong disc out of the wall, sloped on both sides.  A gold faucet and knobs glistened at the center of the wall.

 

Stella’s eyes were closed and she was deeply reclined in the water, submerged up to her neck.  Her hair was twisted and clipped at the top of her head, keeping it dry.  Something fragrant and milky clouded the water so he couldn’t see her body.  He knelt down by her head and folded his arms along the lip of the tub before resting his chin on them.

 

“How was the bar?” she asked, her lips barely moving and her eyes still closed.

 

“Lonely,” he answered.

 

“Were you looking for company?”

 

“I was looking for you.”

 

Slowly, Stella rolled her head towards him and opened her eyes.  She blinked languidly and he reached out to cup her cheek and brush damp strands of hair away from her temples.  Tentatively, he bent his head and when she didn’t pull away, touched his lips to hers.  Her mouth opened just enough for him to brush her tongue with his and then he pulled back.

 

“You taste like the night we met,” she said.

 

“Scotch and desire?”

 

She raised one of her brows and licked her lips.

 

“Regrets, Sherlock?”

 

“No.  You?”

 

“Not for a minute.”

 

Her eyes zig-zagged across his face, forehead to chin and then back.  He looked away and dangled his hand out above the water, letting his fingers dip just below the surface.

 

“Room for two in there?” he asked.

 

She gave him a brief nod and he stood, tugging at the back collar of his t-shirt to pull it over his head.  He hesitated for a moment and then slipped out of the bathroom to step out of his shoes somewhere they wouldn’t be tripped over and piled his clothes next to hers.

 

Naked, he slipped back through the door and found Stella sitting up, knees folded and poking up from the water.  She wrapped her arms around her legs and hunched over them, resting her cheek on her knees.  Hank climbed into the tub in front of her, folding his own knees and finding space for his feet next to her hips.  He reached down into the water and found her ankles, rubbing them softly for a few moments before working his way up the back of her calves.

 

“I know I said some things,” he said.

 

“We both said some things,” she murmured.

 

He pulled one hand from the water and touched his dripping finger to her nose, sliding it down the straight and narrow slope so that she turned her head and looked up at him.

 

“I want to tell you something,” he said.

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“Sometimes I think you’re a figment of my imagination.  That I created you somehow and wrote you down and then you became real.  Because, you’re so many things I want.”

 

“I’m not perfect.”

 

“Fuck no,” he whispered, smiling.  “Not by a long shot.  I’m not saying that.  Jesus, you’re as stubborn as an ox, you run hot and cold in the same minute, you rarely let me help you when you need it, and I’m looking at you right now and it kills me that you can accept me saying these things to you easier than when I tell you you’re beautiful or I miss you or I love you.”

 

“Then maybe I’m not what you want.”

 

“You are exactly what I want.  Someone that makes me want to be a better person.  Someone that doesn’t judge me for my past.  Someone that has changed the way my daughter looks at me.  Someone I constantly fear disappointing, but the reward of being with you makes it worth it.”

 

Stella bowed her head so that her forehead touched her knees and Hank bent his head as well so that his forehead touched the top of her head.

 

“You’re someone I like belonging to,” he whispered.

 

They stayed that way for a long time.  Hank lifted his arm at one point and rested his hand at the top of her back, his wet thumb caressing the damp line of her vertebrae just below her neck.  Finally, she lifted her head and he lifted his as well.  She unfolded herself and used the sides of the tub to push herself back to the end and reclined.  She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him and at the water.

 

Very slowly, not to disturb the water too much, Hank turned and lay back against Stella’s chest.  His head came down on her shoulder and she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms across his chest.  She rested her chin against his temple.

 

“I like it when you hold me,” he said.

 

“Words come so easily to you.”

 

“They don’t, actually.”

 

“You know what I mean, Hank.  I can’t say the things you can.”

 

“Tell them to me in French.  I bet ‘fuck off’ sounds way hotter en français anyway.”

 

“J'ai peur de te décevoir. J'ai peur d'être en train de te perdre.”

 

Hank ran his hands along the underside of Stella’s thighs and she sighed into his hair.  He broke free of her arms and turned on his knees, bracing his arms on the sides of the tub to hover over her and give her a kiss.  The water rose up to her jaw as he leaned into her and she moaned softly and pushed at his chest.

 

Not so mindful of upsetting the water level anymore, Hank fell back into his side of the tub and Stella followed.  She gripped the edge of the tub above his head and he took a hold of her hips as she slipped into the space between his legs and over his chest to kiss him.  He pushed one of his feet against the opposite end of the tub to keep from slipping under the water as Stella kissed him.  His erection, hard and pulsing, was trapped between their bodies.

 

She felt as slippery as an eel and though she tried to use the back of the tub for leverage to slide her body against his, he couldn’t keep hold of her hips.  The water sloshed over and splashed outside on the tiled floor.  He tried gripping her ass, but keeping her up caused him to slide under and the water lapped at their faces, disrupting their kiss.

 

“This isn’t gonna work,” Hank said.

 

“Shower,” she breathed, sliding away from him and pushing herself up to stand.

 

He groaned already missing the press of her breasts against his chest.  She stepped out of the tub and opened the glass door of the shower, leaving it open as she turned the water on and waited for him by backing into the tiled corner.  Hank got up and climbed out of the tub.  Steam from the shower fogged the glass as soon as he shut the door behind him.

 

Stella reached for him and wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted her easily and she wrapped her legs around his waist.  He pressed her back into the tile and she reached down between them to guide him home.  He grabbed onto the built-in soap tray in the wall to steady himself as he pushed into her.  There were times when fucking her made him feel weak in the knees and now couldn’t be one of those times.

 

Hot water rained down on him from the side and pooled between their bodies.  He could feel it washing over him as he pulled out to thrust back inside.  It tickled his groin as it sluiced down between his legs and heightened the pleasure he already felt.

 

One of Stella’s legs slipped down his hip and he caught it quickly, hiking her thigh back up and pressing her deeper into the wall.  Her gasp echoed off the tiles and she pulled his hair between her fingers.  

 

The walls were dripping with steam, no longer providing any of their initial traction.  Stella’s back slid up with his thrusts and he couldn’t keep her steady.  His feet were in danger of slipping.

 

“Fuck,” he growled, stopping to lift her higher.  He turned her away from the wall and knelt down, one arm securely around her back while she held on and the other searching the bottom of the shower for the best spot to lay her down.  

 

Hank cupped the back of Stella’s head with both hands as he lowered her down away from the spray.  She still clutched him tightly with her arms and legs, but as he pushed back inside her, he pressed his arms against her knees, folding her legs up higher so her ankles separated from their crossed spot at his tailbone and her hips angled up to meet his body.

 

She moaned deeply.  He folded his fingers around the top of her head to protect her from hitting the wall with his thrusts as he widened the spread of his knees to pound into her.  His balls were hot and tight and slapped against the wet tile floor with every thrust.

 

He needed her to come soon because his body was readying itself for release.  Like an archer stretching his bow back, the string was taut and ready to snap.  Suddenly, her hands came down from his back and gripped the underside of his ass.  Her sharp breath turned to gasps in time with his quick thrusts and her body trembled under his.  He released the bow with a hoarse groan and then the whisper of her name inside of a hiss.

 

Around them, the water crackled on the tile and ran over his back and thighs.  He moved his arms to let Stella’s legs unfold and her feet hit the floor with a wet slap.  They breathed roughly against each other, Hank panting against her shoulder and Stella panting against his cheek.  When he breath no longer felt like it was exploding from his lungs, he lifted his head and kissed her, paying no mind to the water that trickled across his cheeks and into the corner of their mouths.

 

He kissed her, changing the angle of his head often, until he shrank and slipped out of her and the water started growing tepid.  He helped her up from the floor and went to turn off the water, but she put a hand on his wrist and turned her shoulders into the spray.

 

“I’ll only be a minute,” she said.

 

“Take your time,” he answered, letting himself out of the steam-locked shower and grabbing one of the plush towels from a rack nearby.

 

Hank toweled off and released the plug in the bathtub before he headed into the bedroom.  He hooked his phone up to the docking station in the clock radio and turned his music on shuffle on low volume.  His feet were still damp when he slipped his jeans back on, skipping the underwear, and left footprints on the wood floor as he put the clothes on the bed away.

 

Elton John’s Tiny Dancer played quietly when Stella came out of the bathroom, clad in a hotel robe that seemed to swallow her whole.  Hank smiled as he stood by the balcony window.  He’d turned the lamp off, letting the moonlight and streetlight bathe the room in a muted blue glow.

 

“Come here,” Hank said, plucking at the sleeve of Stella’s robe because her hands were hidden somewhere inside them.  He pulled her to his chest and moved his hands up her soft, plush-covered back to her shoulders and lifted her arms to bring them around his neck.  He linked his hands against the small of her back and swayed his hips against hers.

 

“Softly,” he sang in a hushed falsetto.  “Slowly.  Hold me closer tiny dancer.”

 

Stella turned her face into his chest to muffle her light chuckle and he kissed the top of her head.

 

“Lay me down in sheets of linen,” he sang.  “You had a busy day today.”

 

Stella’s arms seemed to melt away from around his neck and moved down around his middle.  Her robe made it feel like he was stroking clouds as he rubbed her back in slow circles.

 

“Say something French,” he whispered.

 

“Je t’aime, connard,” she mumbled.

 

“Hey, I know that one.  Je t’aime to you too, Sherlock.”

 

“Ferme ta gueule, Watson.  T'es rien qu'un petit connard.”  She sighed.  “Mais, toujours, je t'aime.”

 

“Yep, sounds awesome.”

 

She smiled, closed her eyes and let him sway her in the moonlight.

 

The End

  
  



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